


The Importance of Deeply Pretentious Imported Algae Tea

by temporalDecay



Series: distrait shorts [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:18:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Side story to the main Distrait-verse. </p><p>  <em>How exactly did Karkat pick up the habit of drinking obscenely expensive algae tea?</em></p><p>The rest of you is busy staring at the mug shot of a very unfortunate looking kid. His horns are almost nonexistent, the teeth visible through his overbite look blunt, his ears are small enough to seem almost round and his entire expression is pure fear and frustration masquerading as something tougher.</p><p>And then there’s the fact his eyes are already filled in with the most hideous shade of red you’ve seen in your entire fucking life.</p><p>The Empress smiles at you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Importance of Deeply Pretentious Imported Algae Tea

You are eight hundred ninety four sweeps old, when you meet Karkat Vantas. 

You had to fly halfway across the fucking galaxy to get here and, frankly, you’re not expecting much. So a little kid killed the Condesce and crowned herself Empress, big deal. Had to happen at some point, really, that’s just the natural order of things. All trolls have to die at some point, even millennial bitches like her. Old hag probably went senile and no one noticed until a pintsized fish girl put a culling fork right through her face. You’re not one for politics, really. All you care about is flying. The thrill of a good battle every now and then, to be savored like particularly fine wine. 

Nonetheless, you are somewhat thrown off guard as you enter the Alternian atmosphere. That’s not a thing you can say happens every day. Not to you anyway. They have built permanent ports now, which seems surreal enough, but logically means that at least for _someone_ , breaking in and out of the Alternian atmosphere is the most natural thing in the world. Still, though, adults on the home planet. Ridiculous. 

The _Medea_ settles in without a fuss, even if the mood in the bridge is tense and expectant. 

“I want every troll in the bridge dressed sharp and ready to disembark in twenty minutes,” you say, taking the time to stare in the eye at each and every one of them, just in case they get _ideas_. “No gates open til I say they do, not even if the fucking Empress herself starts banging outside with her goddamn culling fork. Now get the fuck _moving_ , I’m on a schedule here.” 

The bridge clears out after a moment, as you sit back and stare at all the black screens. Turned off. You don’t remember ever seeing everything turned off on the bridge before. The silence – in your ears and in your mind – is unnerving. 

“Is it going to be bad?” Harper asks, bringing you a cup of tea and smiling that gut-wrenchingly annoying smile of hers. 

You take the cup, pause long enough to inhale the characteristic smell, and then take a long, thoughtful sip, careful not to look at her in the eye. 

“Remind me of a single fucking time it _hasn’t_ been bad,” you scowl, as the shorter woman goes sit on the control panel by your left, planting her ass square on top of the keyboard. 

She’d do that even if the control panel were on, which makes it no less vexing at the moment. 

“The Condesce is dead, though,” she says, fiddling with her necklace and looking unbearably chipper. “The new Empress—“ 

“Is a fucking child,” you say, rolling your eyes and knocking back the rest of your tea. “And whatever this is about, you need to fucking remember it’s about a goddamn childish tantrum.” 

“You said the same thing about the Condesce,” Harper gives you a skeptical look and only out of sheer habit you resist the urge to throw the cup at her head. 

Waste of a perfectly usable cup, that, her fucking empty head would be none the wiser and you’d find yourself lacking a cup and forced to put up with the whining of the admin-in-turn this perigee. 

“It’s _always_ a fucking childish tantrum, with tyrians,” you say, putting the cup down on the armrest of your chair and pulling yourself to your feet with a sigh. You take a moment to stretch, back cracking loudly as you do. “Dress them up and down, but I promise you, at the heart the only difference between the Condesce and the Complaint—“ 

“Complacence, actually.” 

“—is the length of their hair.” You roll your eyes. “Now, come on. Let’s go see what the fuss is about.” 

Harper scrambles to follow after you, hurriedly trying to make up for your longer stride. 

“It hasn’t even been five minutes—“ 

“If by this point those fuckers don’t understand that when I say twenty minutes, I mean two, I’m culling the whole lot of them when we get back.” 

You stop when you realize you can no longer hear the obnoxious clicking of the damn heels your navigator insists on wearing all the time. You turn around to find her standing several feet behind. She’s no longer smiling. 

“We _are_ coming back, right?” 

You’d punch her for that, but she’s out of reach and you don’t give enough of a fuck to backtrack. 

“Of course we’re coming back,” you roll your eyes hard enough it’s a miracle it doesn’t make a sound. “Now stop reenacting your stupid goddamn soap operas and let’s get this shit over and done with.” 

“Sir,” she says, grinning widely as she scurries to catch up with you again, “yes, sir!” 

  


* * *

  


They built her a palace. 

On the home planet. 

Admittedly, you have not been following the Heiress situation as closely as most trolls around you, but that’s mostly because you know enough about it from second hand chatter you’re forced to endure lest Harper get ideas in her tiny fucking head and starts fucking shooshing you or some shit. 

Fucking shithead. 

But yes, a palace. As far as the shit you’ve seen, it’s nothing remarkable. But it sure is a palace and it’s very much on Alternian soil, and you’re still trying to make up your mind if you’re offended or grudgingly impressed by the sheer balls the tiny Empress had to have had, to order the construction of such a thing _before_ securing the throne. The thing about tyrians, you reckon, is that they’re all fucking ballsy as all shit. The one and only time you saw the Condesce in person, she put a culling fork through a Truvian’s general’s face, when she decided abruptly that no, trollkind was not negotiating after all. You’re still not sure how is that trolls ended up winning that particular battle afterwards, but you can admit that was ballsy. You can admire being ballsy. 

What you can’t stand is fucking stupidity, and that, you’ve come to learn in your very long life, is the most common trait among trolls. 

“Captain Zebeck,” a stuck up looking blueblood says, staring at you – okay, probably staring at your entourage, what with your entire bridge team walking after you like fucking ducklings – through wide eyes. “Eh, the invitation—“ 

“I ain’t here for invitations,” you snap, arching an eyebrow at him. “I’m here for orders. My Empress calls me from across the fucking galaxy, I cross the fucking galaxy and come see what she wants from me. But I’m sure as hell gonna be pissed, if it’s all about an invitation to fucking _tea_ , instead of giving me orders to carry out.” 

“Your orders,” the man says, suddenly snotty as all fuck, despite the fact you share the same blood, “will be delivered by Her Imperious Complacence directly.” His nostrils flare as he pauses, clearly expecting you to be shocked. “To you, and no one else,” he adds, when you summarily refuse to be impressed. 

“Yeah, about that,” you sneer at him, using your sheer height as an intimidating tactic. It works, he gives two steps back before he remembers himself, but by then that’s ground you’re not letting him take back. “I ain’t getting reassigned without my team.” 

“Who said anything about getting reassigned?” He bristles, defensive. 

“You dragged me here from across the fucking galaxy,” you deadpan, making a point to roll your eyes. “Me. Most decorated Captain in the last two hundred sweeps. More than seven hundred sweeps of experience under my belt. Still holder, as of now, of the longest record of continuous travel without a single scratch in the history of the fucking fleet, which, I may add, I’m not resetting just because you decided to make me land.” 

You smile at him, one of your _nicest_ smiles. You will laugh yourself to death if he pisses himself on the spot. 

“But most importantly, I am the only fucking Captain in the fleet who didn’t have her tongue so far up the Condesce’s nook as to be licking her goddamn seedflap all the time.” You make the smile even _nicer_ , just for the sake of watching the blueblood squirm. “The Empress wants me to fly something for her, something important enough she wouldn’t put in the hands of anyone with even the least bit of support for her predecessor. Problem is, as far as I’m aware, that pretty much sums up the entirety of the ranks except for one possible candidate.” You arch an eyebrow. “Me.” 

“Yes, well,” the blueblood clears his throat, trying to recover his composure. Behind you, you hear someone snicker. Because you’re in a magnanimous mood, you let it slip and instead listen to what the blathering fool has to say. “There still remains the matter of your—“ 

“The Empress,” you interrupt, because clearly the fool has nothing of importance to say, “wants me to fly something for her. The matter is, _darling_ , I’m not flying shit without my team. The Empress wants me, and I want my team. If I don’t get my team, then the Empress doesn’t get me.” You lean in, teeth bared. “Wanna know why? Because if I don’t get my team, I will kindly blow the top of my head up myself, just so I can make damn sure she _doesn’t_ get what she want.” 

He bristles as you pull a gun out of your sylladex, brandishing it theatrically. 

“How dare you—“ 

“That’s enough,” a quiet, melodious voice interrupts the man, even as he goes blue in the face from all the blood rushing through his veins. Flustered is a good look for him, you reckon. You turn to look at the source of the voice. “I will take it from here, thank you.” 

The girl is fucking puny, with the obnoxious softness of childhood still clinging to her body. She smiles at the man and then very pointedly tilts her head to the side. He flushes even more and then storms away, still very much angry. The girl’s gaze lingers on him a moment, before turning to meet yours straight on. 

Ballsy. 

“Captain Zebeck,” she says, her smile easy on her lips in the same grating way Harper’s is. Genuine. “I had intended to meet you alone, but if you follow me, we can relocate somewhere you and your team are far less cramped.” 

She turns to walk away, baring her back to you without a care, despite the fact you’re still very much holding a gun. 

_Real_ ballsy. 

You’re pretty sure as far as first impressions go, this is a solid point for the new Empress. Intrigued, you nod at your people and set to follow her as she navigates the corridors with an air of nonchalance that you reluctantly admit is impressive. She’s fucking puny as all hell, sure, but there might or might not be something more to it. You decide you want to find out what this runt of an Empress wants from you. She’s wearing gold and red and white, with just the barest splashes of tyrian in her clothes. You realize you recognized her as the Empress for her attitude, more than any obvious signs of her office. 

Yes, she looks like the Condesce. Yes, she’s clearly a seadweller. Yes, she’s wearing the imperial sign on her little tiara. But you never _notice_ those things. You’re mildly puzzled by the fact she triggered the things you _do_ notice, usually, because then maybe she does mean business. 

“In here,” she says, stopping outside an ornate pair of doors and pushing them open without a fuss before stepping in. 

You lead your group inside, half expecting to find an army inside waiting to shoot you all down for daring to disrespect her. Instead, you find a large study. There are bookshelves and tables and chairs, more than enough for all of you. It looks well used, with papers and books and shit strewn all over the place. 

“I would offer you a cup of tea,” she says, once the last man is in and the door is closed, “as I had been led to believe it was your favorite drink.” She smiles at you, going to lean against one of the desks, hands on the edges and expression unbearably playful. “But you just made it very clear how you feel about that, so I shall refrain.” 

It’s been a long ass damn time since you’ve been at loss for words. You mentally assign her another point over her predecessor, and nod slowly. Cautious. This can still go south and you can still end up dead, even if for all intends and purposes, you’re pretty sure she just took you and your people into the block where most of her ridiculous revolution was planned. 

“Yes, well,” she shrugs easily, “orders.” 

The charade falls. 

You can feel the air in the block shift, and you’re half expecting to find a goddamn subjugglator hiding in a corner. You resist the urge to look, because deep down you know it’s her. It’s all her. The block suddenly feels claustrophobically small and you get the feeling that if she doesn’t like your answer, you’re the one that’s going to end up with a culling fork to the face. 

“This,” she says, tapping a finger on a small projector by her side, “is Karkat Vantas, descendant of the mutant known as the Signless Sufferer and as of two weeks ago, High Chancellor of Alternia and supreme authority on all matters pertaining trolls, barring my direct input.” 

A corner of your mind wonders how, if she had intended to show you this somewhere else, did she managed to have her presentation ready _here_. The rest of you is busy staring at the mug shot of a very unfortunate looking kid. His horns are almost nonexistent, the teeth visible through his overbite look blunt, his ears are small enough to seem almost round and his entire expression is pure fear and frustration masquerading as something tougher. 

And then there’s the fact his eyes are already filled in with the most hideous shade of red you’ve seen in your entire fucking life. 

The Empress smiles at you. 

“And you, Captain Zebeck,” her smile widens a sliver, “pardon, you and your team, are going to fly his ship for me.” 

  


* * *

  


You don’t know what you were expecting, really. 

You spent the night pacing along the length of your quarters. At least until Harper lost her patience and forcefully shoved you into a recuperacoon. Then you stubbornly refused to sleep and instead continued pacing in your mind. You read his file. You saw videos of him. You heard about four different speeches of his, three of them unscheduled and completely spontaneous. And then, as soon as you decided you’d collected all the data available at the moment, you set your mind to think. 

You still haven’t made up your mind. 

He’s _repulsive_. Every time you see his eyes, every fiber of your being throbs and makes you wish you could reach out and claw them out of their sockets. He’s the filthiest thing you’ve ever seen in your life. Not just a mutant, no, but a mutant with his blood. Such a disgusting hue. It sets your teeth on edge. You have nearly nine hundred sweeps of experience yelling at you that the sensible thing to do is pull a pistol out of your sylladex and fire a shot right between his gross, mutant eyes and enjoy the sight of his gross, mutant pan emptied on the floor. 

And as of two weeks ago – not that you knew _or_ cared, two weeks ago – he officially outranks you. 

He outranks the entire fucking galaxy, sans one chubby, chirpy twit that by some miraculous providence managed to murder her predecessor. The gossip that erupted, as soon as you dragged your team back to the _Medea_ ’s bridge, let you know that while everyone knew _of_ Karkat Vantas, as an unspecified entity, no one knew _about_ him. Your people had been nervous and excited and curious and disbelieving, but they kept their judgments to themselves. 

Because the only one who makes judgments on the _Medea_ is you and everyone else shuts the fuck up and goes along with it or ends up missing a head. 

You _have_ to make a judgment. 

You just don’t know how. 

Yes, he’s disgusting and gross and vile, his very existence should have been ended in the brooding caverns, and yet it was not. But the thing is, because it was not, because the world’s unfair, because of a fuckton of shit you have no control over, it didn’t. He lived, he grew and now he’s the second most powerful troll in the fucking galaxy. Youngest to ever be in that spot, as well. 

You never liked the Condesce. Unlike approximately… oh, 99.9% of the empire, who _also_ didn’t like the fucking asshole, you never made a secret of it. Yet, for all you bitched and snarled and talked back, you were never disciplined for it. You were never punished. You received decoration after decoration, none of which you never even bothered to receive in person. You were granted privileges and benefits befitting of a troll several steps above you in rank, even if you never once made use of them. 

Because in the end, the Empress had understood the one thing about you that no one else did: you follow orders. 

They tried to bribe you. They tried to threaten you. They tried to _murder_ you. All you got out of that was an even more stubborn need to do as you were told, and a fucking scar on your forehead to keep newbies wondering where it came from. You follow orders. You might not like them, and if you don’t, you make damn sure everyone knows you don’t like them, but you obey. 

And if the new kid in charge wants you to look after her pet mutant, you will fucking look after her pet mutant, no matter how much you want to strangle him with your bare hands. 

So, you recant your previous thought. 

You have to make a judgment, but it’s not the how or the why that is bothering you. 

You just don’t want to admit that you never had a choice at all. 

  


* * *

  


“What do you want?” 

You blink down at the kid, ruthlessly stomping on the urge to squish his head like a melon. He’s even more disgusting from up close. 

“Excuse me?” You bit out, eyes narrowed and getting ready to decide just how much you hate him, because hating him at all is a given. 

“The ship,” he says, turning his back on you to look over the mess of papers on his desk. “What fucking ship do you want?” He rolls his eyes when you arch an eyebrow at him. That’s new. Most people shit their pants when you arch an eyebrow at them. “Look,” and he says it in a tone that makes you think he has to use it very often. “I’m not a Captain.” 

“That much is obvious, Chancellor,” you bite out, because you can’t help yourself. 

He blinks a little, taken aback, but the smile on his face is sheepish, rather than scared. 

“Yes, well, fuck you,” he says, candid and obnoxious, “a sweep ago, I was pretty sure I was going to die in the process of getting Peixes her shiny new crown. I wasn’t actually expecting to _live_ , so you’ll pardon me if I slacked off on my schoolfeeding, but most of it wanted me fucking _dead_.” 

You admit, very grudgingly, that he has a spine. 

You steadily refuse to acknowledge the fact you _like_ that. 

“You lived,” you snap, swallowing back the _unfortunately_ that wants to come out. “Now what?” 

He gives you an exasperated look. 

“Zebeck,” and you twitch, because he has the right to omit your rank when addressing you, since his rank is so much fucking higher than yours, but he’s still a filthy mutant and you want to _cull_ him. “You’re a smart woman. I’ve read your file. I agreed to this because you’re fucking brilliant. Please don’t disappoint me, I can’t handle another fucking idiot in my life, I will fucking explode into tiny shimmering bits of rage.” He takes a deep breath. Releases it. Stares at you again. “ _I_ am not a Captain,” he enunciates slowly, “ _you_ are. I know shitfuck all about ships, except maybe they’re big and complicated and go _pshoooo_ as they fly across the galaxy.” You’re startled to find your lip twitching in amusement as he traces the arc of an imaginary ship across the air. He shakes his head. “You’re the Captain. You’re the one that’s gonna fly that shit. What you want matters more than what I want, because you _know_ what you want. All I know right now is that I need to figure out a way to prevent these fuckheads from painting every square inch of whichever ship you choose the same hue as the vomit-inducing swill inside my veins.” He gags. For show, you think, but something in the way he speaks lets you know he means it, for all his theatrics. “So, back to my original question. What. Do. You. Want.” 

You narrow your eyes at him, as he goes back to the papers on his desk. 

“What if I want my ship?” You say, testing the waters. 

“Then we’ll give it a nice paint job, an engine change and call it a day.” 

He doesn’t even look at you. 

“What if I want something bigger?” You narrow your eyes as he shrugs. 

“ _Look_ ,” and then there’s the way he says that, again, “I know you have a fantastic record of not getting yourself turned into space dust. I appreciate that. I also know you fucking hate my guts. Nothing personal, I’m sure, but pretty much everyone hates my guts, myself included. So I figure the way to go is to give you something nice so you’ll forget how much you hate me. Not,” he adds, a little swiftly, “that I doubt your commitment to orders. That has been made quite clear to me. No. Consider it a bonus. I know you’ve never taken a bonus in your life, but I don’t have a ship, frankly, I don’t care if I have a ship, I’m still going to spend most of my nights stuck in a stuffy block arguing semantics with inbred morons who can’t tell their wastechute from a hole in the ground. You’ll care, what kind of ship it is and what it can do and all that shitty technobabble I’ve long stopped pretending I understand. The Empress ship won’t be completed in another two perigees and she wants us – that’s me, out there running errands before that happens. So if you know what you want, tell me so I can bully a bunch of morons into doing their job and providing it. If you don’t know what you want, go think real hard about it for five minutes, then come back and tell me.” 

You study his posture, his clothes. Most importantly, his claws and his ears. You can learn a lot about a troll, from his claws and his ears. You’re observant by nature and it pays you well. You study him for a moment longer, gaze lingering on the tiny details that tell you a fascinating story. You still want to throw up, when you see him. You want to claw his eyes out and shove the barrel of your gun down his throat, just for the pleasure of hearing the sound he makes when you pull the trigger. 

You let out a long, put upon sigh. 

“Damn right I’m a Captain and you’re not,” you say, shaking your head. “Write this shit down, I know exactly what I want.” 

To your supreme frustration, he nods, looking at you expectantly. You force yourself not to be wary and begin to tell him exactly what you want, anyway. 

  


* * *

  


“C’mon,” you say, all of a sudden, interrupting a pompous little minister of something or another. “Vantas.” 

You stand up from the chair and start walking down the corridor, stride long and unforgiving. You know, without having to look, that he’s following you. His feet never make a sound, unlike Harper’s, but you know he’s there. You lead him through the corridors – some of the few that still remain of the _Medea_ , after it was mostly torn apart and rebuilt layer by layer into the _Leviathan_ – back to your quarters. They’re right across the hall from his, but he’s never been in them. You’re mildly amused by the look on his face when he realizes where he is. After half a sweep, you’ve learned to live with being mildly amused by everything he does. He’s fierce and loud and rambling, but there’s an honest to god working pan hidden underneath that shitty hair and even shittier horns. He’s young and dumb, but the kind that will grow older and smarter as he goes. He doesn’t grovel at your feet. He snaps back when he’s in a mood. He has a damn nice commanding voice, when he can be fucking arsed to remember about it. 

You step into the waiting block and put water to boil in a slightly dented kettle you once used to smash Harper’s head after an argument in the bridge. 

“So,” the kid says, looking around and then pretending very hard he’s not looking around. “Why did you feel it necessary to drag me out of a staff meeting and into your block?” 

He’s jittery and nervous. You can tell, because he’s not swearing. Shit be fucked up, when Karkat Vantas isn’t adding a new hitherto undiscovered permutation of the word fuck into every sentence. 

“I like you,” you say, taking two cups out of the nearby cabinet. He chokes on a sound. “After careful, prolonged deliberation, I have arrived at the conclusion that I don’t want to violently murder you anymore.” 

“…good?” 

“I’d fucking say so,” you snort. “Tea?” You roll your eyes. “Of course you want fucking tea. You little shit are the reason I keep going through it twice as fast as usual.” You pour him a cup. “Now, here’s the thing.” You take a seat opposite from him, taking a moment to inhale the smell. He does the same. In the beginning, you’re pretty sure he did it to imitate you. These days is because he’s learned to love the unique aroma for its own sake. He certainly drinks your tea as if he does. “You’re afraid of me.” 

“That’s not—“ 

“Let me rephrase that,” you smirk. “I can still make you shit your pants if I care to try.” You crack a laugh, as he puffs up his cheeks and glowers in mortification. “I, however, am merely afraid of your rank. Rather tenuously, these days, I might add.” 

He doesn’t ask a question, no. He wants to, you can see it in his eyes, but instead of opening his mouth and making a fool of himself, he huddles in a chair decidedly too big for him and hides half his face behind the cup, watching you expectantly. 

“It’s reached the point, you disgusting aberration of nature, that I _like_ you.” You shake your head and put your cup to the side. “So I’ve decided I’m going to teach you how to make these fuckers afraid of _you_ , Vantas, not your shitty rank.” 

He doesn’t blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. No. He pauses. 

He _thinks_. 

“Why?” 

God, you like this little shithead so much it’s unfair. 

“Because you’re officially no longer orders to me, once I like you.” You give him a smile. One that’s nicer even than the nicest of the nicest of your smiles. He starts swearing on the spot. “You’re part of my fucking crew, Karkat Vantas. I make damn sure none of my crew ever get themselves killed stupidly. You, kid, ain’t gonna be the exception.” 

He knows you well enough, by now, to let himself whimper at the prospect. 

  


* * *

  


You were eight hundred ninety four sweeps old, when you meet Karkat Vantas. 

On the 900th anniversary of your wiggling day, Karkat Vantas gifts you the beautiful sight of an entire rogue fleet surrendering without a single shot fired. He’s learned the moves, the words, the gestures. He walks down a corridor and trolls stop and stare. They used to, before, sure. But now they stop and stare in terror, not in disbelief. He’s still very unfortunate looking: small, soft. Weak. But he’s learned to turn it into an advantage, rather than a liability. He’s good enough _it doesn’t matter_ he’s small and soft and weak. 

You like the little shithead, for all he’s a mutated abomination and should have been culled the moment he crawled out of an egg. Because the truth is, Karkat Vantas is going places, of that much you’re certain. 

And you’re the one that’s going to take him there, in all senses of the word. 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by tumblr and because I really, genuinely love Saanvi's character and felt like writing something more cohesive about her.
> 
> Hopefully this answers the burning questions about Karkat's tea habits.
> 
>  
> 
> [RP/Askblog for Distrait-verse.](http://requisitionforms.tumblr.com/)


End file.
